John's feet were heavy as he finally walked back into the flat early that evening, his mood light but body weary. He rubbed his jaw as he turned to hang his coat up, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension building there.
"Sherlock?"
John paused, irrationally listening for imminent orgasms, but heard nothing. Peering into the kitchen, he saw Sherlock at the sink, turned away from him, washing out some sort of apparatus.
"Evening," he announced cheerily. It was barely 5pm, but night had definitely fallen on this bone-numbing, freezing January day.
Sherlock hardly even twitched in response, far too engulfed in soaking what seemed to be some kind of fragile contraption in suds.
"Did... you have a good day?" John tried again, perhaps a little too happily, but fuck it - he was in a good mood for once. "I did," he followed quickly, talking for the sake of noise.
"Yes," Sherlock answered. It was mostly expressionless, apart from the tiniest hint of a question at the end, which John recognised well. It meant that Sherlock was vaguely aware that he had been asked a question, but wasn't listening, so picked a random 'yes' or 'no' answer.
John let out a long sigh, deciding that he would keep talking anyway. Sherlock might not have been listening, but he could pretend as if he was. As if he cared.
"You know that new nurse I told you about, Laura? Well I was talking to her and - fucking hell, Sherlock!"
John felt the mug he'd picked up fall from his grasp as the detective turned slightly, reaching for a tea towel only to have the fading sunlight catch his face.
"...Did you just remember where you recalled her unusual surname from? Her sister was your patient. Herpes," Sherlock said blandly. "...That's two mugs in two days that you've broken, John."
John's jaw was still slack as the man took his silence quizzically, turning to face him a little more. John took the two strides in quick succession until he stood in front of his flatmate, both hands reaching up to cup the man's face.
"What the fuck happened?" he snapped, his eyes taking in the blooming bruise on his left cheekbone and the scabbing cut over his lower lip.
Sherlock abruptly shut his mouth and halted his instinctive movements, convinced as he had been that John was striding across and grabbing his face in order to kiss him.
It was probably a good thing that the handmarks on his cheek would camouflage any other...conflagrations in his skin.
"...Got a bit carried away," he mumbled, shrugging. John's cold hands felt marvellous on his burning face.
"This is more than getting carried away, Sherlock, Christ."
John's fingers ghosted gently over the bruise, the skin still flushed and warm to the touch. There were no sharp lines or shape to it, so John had to conclude that it had been a physical blow.
"This is not good, damnit. This is not..." John clamped his teeth together, hard.
"It's part of the...process," Sherlock tried to explain. "But sometimes he forgets himself."
A flush of anger rose up John's cheeks, and he had to take a moment to steady his breathing before he completely erupted.
"Forgets himself? It looks like he beat the shit out of you, for fuck's sake. You can't tell me that's enjoyable." John pressed his finger into the bruise to emphasise his point.
Sherlock winced. "I would have preferred it to have stayed exclusively on my body. I think perhaps he was annoyed that somebody had found out about us. He'd rather no-one knew."
"What?"
John felt something inside him snap, and now he was positively seething.
"Are you shitting me? That is not a fucking relationship, what the hell are you playing at? Letting someone do this to you, Sherlock? That is so many shades of messed up. You're not a fucking punching bag!"
"I've told you already, John. It's not a relationship. I don't expect kindness from him."
"Don't expect... Jesus fucking Christ!"
The doctor turned, his foot catching the broken mug on the floor, before he viciously ground his foot into the porcelain pieces. The crunch did nothing to quench the consuming rage taking over him.
"This is not sex, Sherlock. It's not even..." He span on his heel and turned to face his flatmate, the detective meeting his gaze almost pliantly. John let out a growl. "Sex is about trust and respect and that is not respect. Do you even enjoy it? Really? Or are you just doing what you're told?" he spat.
Sherlock's face finally showed some emotion, furrowing in anger, his grey-green eyes cold. He turned and briefly lifted his shirt, giving John a flash of a series of sore, red welts and handmarks. They clearly continued down into his trousers. "This is fine. Not on my face. I made it known I was displeased." He turned back, snapping at the doctor cruelly. "What happened to 'it's none of my business, Sherlock?'"
John felt his eyes widen as he saw the risen welts over Sherlock's back. His indigo eyes darkened as his hands tighten to fists at his sides.
"That's not okay!" he snapped, his voice low and dangerous. "And it's my business when my best fucking friend is being slapped about like a prime fucking steak!"
"You don't understand it, John, so you hate it. By that reasoning you should hate everything in the world, including me. Do me a favour and leave early for that drink. You're boring me with your plebeian dictates on what perfect, ideal sex is. As if you'd know anything about that."
John ground his teeth and stalked forwards, so much menace in his face that the detective took an instinctual step backwards, hitting the counter as John crowded him. John raised his arms to either side of the man's waist, caging him.
"Sex is not perfect, Sherlock," he growled, his anger engulfing him. "It's messy and awkward and fucking brilliant when it's done right. When you have your partner writhing underneath you, begging you to fuck them. Do you beg him, Sherlock? Do you want him so much that he can't wait to touch you, and give in? Hm? Can he make you squirm without hitting you? Because that is sex. Bruises made without knowing how."
"...Uh-" Sherlock's speechless response took them both by surprise. The taller man looked baffled, intrigued, and sick, all at once. He glanced down at the doctor who was effectively pinioning him, and bit down nervously on his lip, before sighing in pain at the deep cut there.
John felt the power settling on his shoulders like a blanket, but it was wrong and made up in anger. He narrowed his eyes, following Sherlock's face as it contorted in shock. He wanted to scare the man into realising what his Mystery Man was doing, but now he was so close, he could feel the heat radiating off Sherlock's skin.
"You don't need whips and slaps for sex," he breathed, his voice dropping even lower. "Not unless it's what you want. What you beg for."
John ran his tongue over his lower lip, realising all too suddenly that he was actually enjoying the mystified expression on the detective's face.
"Answer my question. Do you enjoy it? Even when he leaves you, without so much as a kiss?"
"...The orgasms are perhaps...not as satisfactory as they might be with added...intimacy," Sherlock conceded awkwardly, his pale eyes wide and staring down at his firecracker of a flatmate.
"Of course they're not," he agreed darkly. "Sex is nothing without intimacy. That's where half the fun is. This?" John reached up and ran his rough thumb over the cut on Sherlock's lip, knowing just how close he was and yet it hardly seemed close enough. "This is far too one sided. And it's not enough for you, is it? Is it, Sherlock?"
Sherlock was painfully aware of the pulse throbbing in his throat, knew that John could see it as clearly as a waving white flag. The more he fought to temper his breathing, the more embarrassingly-strained his voice sounded. "It has to be."
"Why?" he purred, his voice drawing out. "If you found one man to meet certain needs, why not find another who could meet them all?"
John felt some kind of tingling in the back of his skull, something akin to warning bells. But he was on a roll, something taking over him. Something he couldn't quite understand.
"Someone who would hit you when you needed it, and was still there to kiss it better."
"…...Who says I haven't found him?" Sherlock murmured. There was a tense, aching silence.
And then John's phone rang, a shrill, shocking sound.
The detective took the opportunity to duck away and stride towards his room. After he had slammed the door behind him, John heard a faint, deep-toned herald. "Have fun tonight."
The doctor found himself staring after the detective for long moments after he had gone, before digging the heel of his hand against his eye socket and pulling his phone free.
"…Laura, hi. Yeah, I'm..." His eyes strayed to Sherlock's bedroom door again and John felt anger tighten in his gut, turning to steel. "I'm looking forward to it too. Yeah - yeah seven o'clock. I'll meet you outside. Okay, yeah, I'll see you then."
As he lowered the phone in his hand, John muttered a curse as he shifted his hips.
What the fuck was happening to him?
John was trying to make his overpriced pint last, wanting (needing?) another one, but Laura had only had about two sips of her slimline gin and tonic. To be fair, the conversation was good (normal). But he was still unsettled from his earlier spat with Sherlock, and didn't quite know how to dissipate his lingering tension and headachey confusion, except by drinking himself into dizzy amnesia. And that was not a wise idea.
His eyes lingered on her lips as she spoke. She really was a beautiful woman, he decided.
Her face was soft and heart-shaped, with dark green eyes flecked with amber. Her lips were plump, painted a pastel pink, and she wore her dark brown hair in lose tendrils around her long neck. John should have been falling over himself to impress her, but he still couldn't shake the dark anger from earlier. It had taken a lot for him not to rant to her about the infuriating detective, for some clarification that he was being fair. That his outburst was justified.
If there was one thing he knew that was guaranteed to quickly turned a date sour, regardless of how it had begun, it was discussion about his flatmate. It didn't matter what the context was.
He felt his phone vibrate, and took it as a cue to stretch his legs a bit. Sod it, he was getting another drink.
"Anything I can get you?" he asked politely, offering one of his most winning smiles - his 'fiend' smile, he had been told. The one that wouldn't melt butter, but could get you out of your knickers in about five seconds flat.
Laura's eyes widened slightly, flickering over his face for a moment, her words stopping mid-breath before her features relaxed into an intrigued smile. She took her glass and drained her drink in a manner of seconds, setting it down with one delicately curved eyebrow.
"Another G&T, if you're buying." There was a teasing edge to her tone, and John felt the air around them shift ever so slightly.
Definitely getting laid tonight, he hummed happily in his head.
Making his way to the bar, he flicked out his phone after ordering, and hesitated when he saw a message alert from Sherlock. To read, or not to read
John cast a glance behind him, noticing that Laura was watching him with a small, almost appreciative smile. She hadn't got her phone out, which from his experience was a good sign. His phone vibrated again in his hand and he internally cursed Sherlock with every colourful word he could think of before he opened the message.
I'm sorry John. I should concede to your knowledge of all things to do with physical love. Your lecture was very affecting. - SH
John let out a weary sigh, leaning on the counter as a fresh pint was put in front of him.
I'm not an expert, Sherlock, but I do know when the lines are crossed. Your man crossed the line. -JW
I think I may have made a very big mistake, John. -SH
To be honest, that doesn't surprise me. But I'm here for you Sherlock. We can talk about it later, okay? – JW
Not now? Are you having sex? - SH
John bit the inside of his lip to stop himself smirking, looking up as the bartender came back with Laura's G&T. He pulled out his wallet, feeling her eyes on his back and quite enjoying the shiver of anticipation that ran over him.
No, I'm not having sex. Not yet, anyway. I've got to get back. We'll talk later.- JW
I may be out. - SH
That would probably be a good idea.- JW
Even if I end up getting beaten like a 'prime fucking steak?' -SH
PS Joke - SH
John let out a harsh breath, the anger he had thought gone crackling just under his skin.
Not. Funny. - JW
He didn't get a reply. Cursing under his breath, he retrieved the drinks, and made his way back to his stunning date, trying to banish the stubborn cloud that was darkening everything like so much bone-deep drizzle.
He cheered a little when he noted that Laura was getting appreciative looks from a few other patrons. Tough luck, pricks.
He couldn't exactly say whether it was the growing amount of alcohol in his system, or the back and forth rhythm of their banter that slowly turned the atmosphere around them heavier. It could have been John's forward remarks or the confidence that he seemed to radiate, fed by anger and repressed sexual frustration.
It didn't quite matter, he realised, as he moved to the toilets only to be pulled back. Soft, delicate arms wound around his neck and he was met with a tangy taste laced with sweet lipgloss and stammered breathing. He kissed her back forcefully, something he rarely did but was unable to stop - and the gorgeous woman in his arms seemed to go pliant under the assault.
Her hands grabbed his shirt, his palms ran over the luscious curves of her backside, and John felt the heat rise within him. It took a mere twenty minutes before they were crashing through the door of 221, grabbing at each other as he eased them up the stairs. Part of him relished the difference in her sweet, high giggle just as he opened the front door and they piled through, a mass of limbs and coats.
He was laughing back into her mouth, breathless and eager. God I've missed this.
"...Can I take you to bed?" He asked throatily, one hand supporting her back, one kneading promises into her thigh.
Laura only answered with a soft moan and a wicked smirk, leaning against him. Part of his brain registered that she was so soft compared to what a m-
No. Nope. Do not fucking go there.
John added a gentle to pressure to her spine, hissing as her hip wriggled against his groin. She let out another sweet chuckle before John stepped back, turning with his hand in hers only to be stopped dead by the figure folded in the corner of the sofa.
"Oh... Sherlock."
Sherlock stood loftily, and with enviable elegance. As soon as John saw what he was wearing, he knew nothing good was going to happen.
"John," the detective rumbled in his deepest, most dangerous voice. His purple shirt was artfully undone at the throat, and his hair was rumpled to glossy perfection.
John found his eyes wondering languidly over Sherlock's frame before soft, delicate hands snaked around his waist and the steady pressure of Laura's body pressed against his back.
John turned his head to laugh even as his face flushed, because he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him.
"Weren't we going to the bedroom?" she hummed, letting her tongue trace the shell of his ear.
"Haven't you heard it's not wise to touch what you can't afford?" Sherlock asked her flatly, raising his voice above the silence.
John froze as he felt the body grinding against him jerk to attention. They both slowly turned their head towards Sherlock, who was watching them with a flat expression. John frowned as Laura put her face over John's shoulder.
"Excuse me?" she replied, her tone clipped.
"Lovely as he is, unless you're prepared to die for him, as I am, then it's probably best to relinquish him right now." Sherlock made no extraneous movements, just stood, looming gloriously, hands on slim hips.
"Sherlock," snapped John, his tone harsh and face confused. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Claiming you." That was all he said, still glaring carelessly at the woman who was gawping, now standing straight and having extricated herself from John's jeans.
John felt his eyes go wide, unable to comprehend the dark blankness in his flatmates' expression.
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Laura, and John didn't know if it was aimed at him or Sherlock.
"Are you mentally subnormal?" Sherlock replied impatiently. "It means exactly what it sounds like. I'm making you aware that he belongs to me. I would suggest pistols at dawn, but given your apparent feeble-mindedness you'd probably turn up with a spade at midday."
John heard the clack of her heel as she stepped back, eyes wide as she looked between John and Sherlock.
"Is...is he serious? John, what's going on?"
"John, please explain to her that your lover is the jealous type. I don't seem to be getting through," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.
John sucked in a sharp breath, finally reacting as Laura turned her eyes to him, horrified.
"Sherlock, stop it! Laura, he is not my lover, don't listen to him." John turned on his friend, glaring over to him. "Stop it Sherlock," he seethed.
"If I'm not your lover, what do you call climaxing together in bed last night? Surely that must count for something. Even if I weren't, I'm doing you a favour. Her qualifications are false, she's only working with you to pinch drugs for her junkie sister. The one with herpes."
John felt some kind of noise escape his throat as he battled with suffocating embarrassment and indignation.
"That's not - we didn't - what the fuck, Sherlock!"
John turned on his heel to face Laura, her body not holding the same shocked stance. Now she looked baffled, her head cast down, lips parted, eyes furious. And she was looking directly at Sherlock, her anger directed towards him.
"Laura?"
The brunette turned, her face going lax as her gaze turned soft, weepy...apologetic.
"…Are you fucking kidding me?"
"John, throw her out before the waterworks start. I can't abide histrionics."
That did it.
"Laura," said John, his voice incredibly deep, dangerous, and seeping anger. "You'd better go."
John's eyes never left Sherlock's, even as his ex-date made some kind of squeaking noise, her eyes wide before she launched herself from the flat. As soon as the door was closed, John closed the three feet between them, his arm pulling back to be lashed out again, his quick fist only just catching Sherlock's chin. The hit was as gentle as a punch could be, and it barely made the man stagger.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" roared the doctor, fighting the urge to swing again.
Sherlock's jaw dropped, his pale eyes bright with a sulphurous green fire. "It's not okay for him to punch me, but it's fine for you?" He gave John a hearty shove, nearly sending him sprawling to the floor.
John caught his balance and faced the man again.
"Well I can kind of see his point! Certainly makes me feel better."
The shocked hurt in Sherlock's expression almost made John regret what he had said. Even as he watched the detective's face crinkle in distress, swallowing down his grief, John prepared himself for another assault.
The next thing he knew, a long finger was pointing at his face, jabbing accusingly. "What did you think I meant when I said I'd made a mistake? What kind of idiot are you, John?!"
"Apparently a great one!" he spat back, wrestling with guilt and anger and regret at his words. "What the hell were you doing? Was that necessary? What is wrong with you?"
"I hate to see it, alright John?! I hate it!" Sherlock bellowed, face reddening, chest heaving with rage.
John was taken back by the rampant fury in his normally-stoic flatmate.
"Oh, so it's fine for you to be moaning and groaning and fucking all hours of the day, but when I do it, it's a case for sabotage?!"
Sherlock railed a bit at that, blinking as he snarled for breath, fists clenched tight. "You really have no idea, John."
"Pack it in, you cryptic shit. Got something to say? Fucking say it."
"I already have, John! You're just too thick to understand what I'm telling you!" He shoved John again, this time hooking his leg with a foot to ensure that the smaller man crashed to the floor.
John let out an undignified huff as he collided with the hard ground, barely managing to blink before his muscles tensed instinctively and his body jerked to attention. His eyes caught sight of Sherlock's leg and without warning, John brought his knee into the crook of it with enough force it buckled. Using his hand, John shoved on the opposite hip, throwing the detective off balance.
"Don't start a fight with a fucking soldier," he snarled, getting to his feet.
"You're just a hoodlum, John. A bloody hothead," Sherlock spat. "It disgusts me that Mrs. Hudson is right!" He surged at John, quickly elbowing him in his good shoulder and then bodily hurling himself on the doctor in an unbelievably-heavy mass of solid limbs, hands and hair.
"Jesus!"
John only just managed to stop himself from going arse over elbow as Sherlock hauled his entire body weight on top of him, taking a few awkward steps until he was slammed so hard against the wall that he felt a crack of pain up his spine.
"I'm a fucking hothead?" he roared, pulling his hands free. He hooked a leg around Sherlock and used his mass to shove him downwards, but Sherlock had a grip on his shirt and they both went crashing onto the floor. John ground his teeth against a jarring in his knee, before shoving Sherlock's long arms above his head and pinning them there.
"You're an absolute fucking lunatic," he raved, bracing his arms against the struggle of Sherlock's limbs.
Sherlock was seething, yelling in fury, wrenching his head around and kicking his legs. Feeling that he'd better secure his position before the admittedly larger and stronger man bucked free, John sat down hard on his hips, straddling him. The detective was practically frothing at the mouth in frustration, yanking his arms and acting like a spooked horse, trying to throw John free.
"You're just wasting your energy now," John panted down at him.
Sherlock rocked his hips, arched his back, his upper lip curled over his teeth indignantly. John held the position steady, his muscles tightening and releasing under the incarcerated vehemence of his flatmate.
"Calm the fuck down," he muttered at last as Sherlock's movements started to slow, leaving the taller man panting heavily.
John took the time to get some much-needed oxygen too, and they both relented in silence, ribcages swelling and sinking with exertion, exhales noisy.
"Right. We all done here?"
Sherlock finally seemed to realise where he was, those piercing eyes snapping up to his own. His expression was sharp, his lips pulled tight.
"Well? You finished?" asked the doctor again, unwilling to let the man go in case he got a smart tap to the jaw.
Sherlock suddenly looked very tired, drained, and despondent. Under his perfectly-preened hair and mouth-watering suit, he was a little too grey, his eyes a little too limpid. "...I think so."
John nodded, trying his hardest not to focus too much on the reddening skin of his jaw. He didn't know what to say, how to even bring about an inkling of civility after the fight they just had. Instead he released Sherlock's wrists slowly, moving himself upwards into a sitting position.
"...I wish I could say 'déjà vu,'" Sherlock tried, looking up at his doctor from his prone position, huffing with weak laughter.
John frowned for a moment before he glanced down, realising he was still straddling the man. Feeling deflated and exhausted, John let out a breath of laughter before pushing himself to his feet. He turned but stopped, looking down at Sherlock before offering the man a hand. He was infuriating, confusing, exhausting and tiresome, but... he was still Sherlock.
The detective took it gratefully, groaning as he got up, and patting tentatively at his sore back. John could have kicked himself, he had to go and forget that the man had fucking wounds all over the place.
"Come on Sherlock. I'll clean them up for you. Then...time for a chat?"
The detective winced and balked, but nodded nonetheless. "Time for a chat."